Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  “Asterion,” she sent out. “Asterion, Ariadne is here. If you stop yelling and sit down quietly, I'll come in and play with you. But you mustn't be angry any more. I was far away, love. I couldn't come right away. But I'm here now.”

  About half way through the speech, the bawling began to diminish. By the end, it had stopped.

  “Will you sit still while I come in, love?” Ariadne called through the door.

  “Sitting,” Asterion roared. “Ridne come in. No one else.”

  Without waiting for help, Ariadne pushed up the bar securing the door, opened it just enough to enter, and ran in. Asterion leapt to his feet and rushed at her, enveloping her in his arms, crying, “Ridne. Ridne.”

  Swallowing hard, Ariadne returned his embrace. He was now a head taller than she, he smelled like an overworked ox, and his arms were so strong she had to beg him to be gentle. He relaxed his grip at once, bending his head down toward her, but sidelong so the horns would not touch her.

  “No hurt Ridne,” he said. “Love Ridne.”

  “Yes, and I love you too, Asterion.” She kissed his cheek, tears of pity hanging in her eyes because she didn't really love him, only pitied him.

  His bull's mouth tried to imitate a smile. “Ridne stay? Play?”

  “Yes, I'll play with you. Go get the toys you want to show me.”

  He went to the side of the chamber and lifted a whole chest. Her eyes widened; it would have taken two normal men to lift that weight, but Asterion carried it and put it down beside her without apparent effort. Ariadne swallowed and sank to the floor as he opened the chest. He was making happy, chortling noises. She decided that this would be a good time to reprimand him. It was close enough to the time that he'd misbehaved that he would remember, but in his first joy over seeing her he might be more amenable than a two-year-old usually was.

  “Asterion, you've been very naughty, hurting your servants.”

  “Lied! She lies! Promised Ridne.”

  “But I've come, dear.” It was unlikely that Asterion could remember how long it was since Pasiphae made the promise. “I was far away. I didn't know you wanted me. I came home last night and, see, I've come at once to you.”

  “Went to temple. No Ridne came.” He shook his heavy head. “No Ridne. No temple.”

  “But you like to go to the temple now, Asterion. You like to see the priests and priestesses dance.”

  “People come after. Too long. Seat hurts.”

  “If I speak to mother, love, and she promises to make the ceremony of offering shorter, will you go to the temple when she asks?”

  He looked at her, looked away. Plainly he didn't wish to answer. Ariadne felt it would be unwise to push him too hard. Asterion took several tops from the chest and began to spin them one after the other so cleverly that they interwove in a complicated pattern. Ariadne watched. Strength and dexterity seemed to be his Gifts, but what good were they? What he needed was understanding to match his growth of body. As the idea came into her mind so did the blasphemous thought that none of the gods seemed to have much in the way of either understanding or wisdom. Only the Mother ...

  How could a god lack wisdom? The question sent a chill down Ariadne's back. She pushed the rebellious thought away and gave her attention to Asterion, clapping her hands and uttering cries of praise as he pulled a snakelike toy with segments that glittered through the path of the whirling tops. Those he kept in action by snatching each as it barely began to wobble and spinning it again. Then he got his wagon and pulled that around the perimeter of the spinning tops to add to the glitter and the noise. After a time, however, he picked up each wobbler and tossed it into the wagon.

  Ariadne searched in the chest and brought out several puzzles. Asterion didn't like these so much, but he did put the large pieces where they belonged—if Ariadne chose the piece and showed him the spot. She noted sadly that he still didn't seem to make any sense out of the distinctive shapes. Nor could he send a ball through a simple maze. It wasn't any fault in his ability to make the ball go anywhere he wanted. He just didn't seem able to grasp the clear, if physically convoluted, pattern to bring it home.

  Since those games had annoyed him, Ariadne found one she had never been able to master herself. It consisted of a ball and a paddle with a cup at the base. The idea was to start with the ball in the cup, toss it out so that it could be hit with the paddle, and then catch it in the cup and repeat. The paddle could be used to bounce the ball off the floor or the walls. Ariadne could do it a few times; then she either failed to hit it or catch it. Asterion just went on and on, chasing the ball around the room as paddle strokes sent it up, down, and across, sometimes even awry. Unerringly he caught the ball each time.

  “Oh, love, you're making me dizzy,” Ariadne cried at last. “Aren't you hungry? It's surely time for the midday meal.”

  “Temple in afternoon,” he said, catching the ball one last time and giving the toy to Ariadne.

  “You will go, won't you?” she asked. “I can't stay and play longer today anyhow. I have other duties. Won't you let your servants come in and bring your food and dress you?”

  “Shorter time?”

  “Not this ceremony, love. Just be a little patient until I have a chance to speak to the queen. But I won't tell you lies. If she won't shorten the making of offerings, I'll tell you true.”

  “Ridne never lies. Come tomorrow? Please?”

  “Oh, Asterion—” she put her arms around him and hugged him tight, kissed his cheek “—I don't know. I'll try to come. I will try.”

  “Ridne come. Bull God go to temple.”

  Possibly the attendant waiting outside the chamber heard what Asterion had said; his voice was loud and penetrating even when he wasn't deliberately shouting. In any case, there was no problem about her admission to Asterion the next day or at any other time. His attendants, who had been indifferent, sullen, or actively hostile in the past, now welcomed her with smiles and bows. She ventured a few words of advice on Asterion's management. And, although Pasiphae wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't even look at her, Ariadne was able to pass Asterion's request for shorter offering ceremonies to her through Phaidra.

  Whether the processions were curtailed for that reason or because the original fervor of worship was wearing thin, Ariadne didn't know and didn't care. Asterion went to the ceremonies without complaint and seemed content. His condition improved too; his fur gleamed with brushing and his odor decreased. He still greeted her with shrieks of joy, but she felt there was less desperation in his voice. And one attendant even thanked her for reminding them that Asterion was no more than a baby despite his size.

  Relative peace descended on palace, temple, and shrine, and the vines that Ariadne had blessed were blossoming with even more than their usual abundance. Two years of bountiful harvests and wines that fermented sweet and rich were bringing prosperity to Crete. Even if no one had dared scant the Bull God—and a few did dare—there was enough to spare for an offering to honor Dionysus. More sacrifices arrived at the shrine every day. As the spring equinox approached, Ariadne began to worry about what would happen at the ritual because Pasiphae had arranged ceremonies at the Bull God's temple on the same day. Ariadne didn't really believe her mother had accepted defeat on the subject of her daughter's service; however, the one disturbance that occurred wasn't caused by Asterion or Pasiphae.

  Bacchus' face appeared in Ariadne's scrying bowl again when she Called Dionysus and he snarled that she'd been ordered not to Call the god ever again. Less shocked and unprepared this time, Ariadne snapped back that she had no choice. As high priestess she must perform the ritual, and the ritual demanded a Calling of the god.

  “Tell Dionysus that if he wishes me to stop Calling him, he must come and change the ritual himself. I haven't the power to do that.”

  A look of such frustrated fury, mingled with fear, appeared on Bacchus' face at her words, that Ariadne suddenly began to wonder if Dionysus even knew of Bacchus' order that she stop Callin
g him. Was it possible for a god not to know what his own servants were doing? She was hardly aware of undressing, lying on the altar, then rising and dressing again.

  Then a less frightening notion occurred to her. Was it possible that Dionysus' anger against her had been kept alive by a companion jealous of the god's attention? Hadn't Pasiphae brought the Bull God upon Knossos because she was envious of Ariadne's contact with a god?

  Ariadne was enough cheered by the idea that Dionysus' rage was not self-sustaining that she actually looked at the worshipers in the court. She was surprised by how much larger the group was than she expected, and even more surprised to see among them her brother Androgeos. He was the favorite of all her siblings, but it was not an unadulterated joy to see him there because she suspected he had not come to worship.

  Just before she gave a blessing to the crowd, he caught her eye and made a small gesture to indicate he wished to wait and speak to her when she had dismissed the others, which confirmed her suspicions. As the gate closed behind the last person, Androgeos came forward and saluted her courteously.

  “Won't Queen Pasiphae be furious if she hears you were at my ritual instead of at hers?” Ariadne asked.

  “No, because she sent me to see whether the god came and, if he didn't, to try to convince you to join the Bull God's ritual.”

  “Ritual? That's a blasphemy,” Ariadne said coldly. “Asterion is no god, and you know it, and King Minos knows it, and I'm reasonably sure even Queen Pasiphae knows it, no matter how blind an eye she turns.”

  Androgeos sighed. “The service you would give would have little enough to do with the Bull God. It's no pleasure to me either to prostrate myself before a mindless monster and call it a god, but—”

  “He's not mindless,” Ariadne protested. “He's only two years old! Do you think you were so wise and perfect when you were two years old?”

  “I know he's two years old! Pasiphae makes a great point that he was born out of her body only two years ago. He's as tall as I and stronger ... and that's the only miracle she can claim for him.”

  “Well, his size does prove he's Poseidon's get and must be cherished. But worshiped? No. At least, not by me.”

  “There are other reasons,” Androgeos said urgently.

  Ariadne saw she wouldn't escape argument so easily. She sighed and gestured for Androgeos to follow her down the corridor. Since it was daylight and she knew the way well, no lamps were alight; however, it was dim in the passage and Androgeos, being a stranger, stumbled. Ariadne immediately waved at the lamps, which lit. She opened the door and entered her apartment, stepping back so her brother could come in.

  “And those reasons?” she asked, gesturing at the door, which closed.

  Androgeos didn't answer at once, looking around at the now sparsely furnished and elegant room. A few sets of marvelously carved chairs were grouped around low, round, matching wood tables. Another set, two chairs and a loveseat, flanked an oblong table of ivory. Toward the back of the room, nearest to the light well was a cushioned single chair with a low stool and a gilded table beside it. On the table was a golden bowl.

  “Please sit,” she said, pointing at the loveseat and then at a brazier in which the charcoal immediately began to burn.

  Androgeos stared, looking from the glowing coals to his sister's face. Doubt showed in his expression, but after a moment his mouth set hard and he sat down. Ariadne sighed and took the chair opposite.

  “You're looking very well, Ariadne,” Androgeos began. “You've grown quite beautiful, and it seems you've gained some power of your own. Nonetheless, Dionysus hasn't returned for two years. If he'd wished to keep his worshipers and contest the influence of the Bull God, he'd have done it sooner.”

  “Why should he? Do you think Crete is important to him? Doesn't Egypt grow grapes? Greece? Sicily? Biblos and Babylon? Dionysus has enough to do without caring about Crete. He gave me the power to bless the grapes and he gave his warning when Asterion was born. If Knossos won't listen, the grief will fall on their heads, not his.”

  “But don't you see that you can prevent any grief from coming to us?”

  “It's too late, I fear,” Ariadne said. “I don't think that anything can shield Knossos now.”

  “Yes. You can. The miracle of the grapes is renewed every year. If you danced at the Bull God's temple—”

  “No.” The answer was flat, uncompromising. “I dance for the Mother. I am priestess for and perform the ritual for the god Dionysus. I will worship no other god.”

  “Why not?” Androgeos was annoyed. “Everyone brings offerings to many shrines.”

  “That's quite different. I, too, might bring doves to Aphrodite's shrine to pray for success with a lover, as a private person, as the girl Ariadne. I wouldn't perform any ritual of worship as a priestess.”

  “This is a matter of trade and politics, not worship,” Androgeos pointed out. “Did you know that mother has invited envoys from many nations and city-states to come and see the Bull God made flesh?”

  Ariadne shrugged. “Let them look. Asterion is real enough—”

  “Real, yes, but no god. He—he has no presence. I was here when Dionysus appeared. I—I knew—” He stopped abruptly, then went on as if he were still speaking of Asterion. “The envoys from Egypt already have doubts. They were astounded on first seeing him and prostrated themselves on the ground, intoning hymns . . . which started him bellowing because he wanted his dancers. They were startled and withdrew, fearing they had offended somehow, but the second time they came, although they had come with rich gifts to appease him ... they weren't quite so impressed. You know their ideas of the ka and the ba. I heard one say the beast had no ka, that it was soulless.”

  Sighing, Ariadne said sadly, “He's only a baby. If only mother weren't so impatient. As he gets older, he'll learn to behave in a more dignified fashion ... I think.”

  “It will be long too late. The Egyptians have great influence. If they say we worship a false god—”

  “Why should they? They don't say the gods of the Greeks are false, even though they're far different from their own. Why should they deny Knossos its god?”

  “Because it's a travesty of their own, which are also animal-headed? Because they don't wish to share their kind of god with us?” Androgeos shook his head. “It doesn't matter why. We need the respect, even the fear, of Egypt and others to assist in treaty making and trade agreements. Fear of our god—a god made manifest in the flesh and attending to our affairs—is less expensive and perhaps less dangerous than a large army and a great fleet of fighting ships.”

  “Well, perhaps ... But I don't see what this has to do with me.”

  “A god works miracles, sometimes by his own hand, sometimes through his priests or priestesses. You work miracles. If you are the Bull God's priestess, then perhaps his deficiencies will be less noticed. If his mere priestess can work wonders, they'll believe he must be a true god.”

  “First, I don't work miracles. The blessing of the grapes—”

  “I saw you light the lamps, the brazier, close the door without touching any of them.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “That's magic, not a god-given Gift. I wouldn't cheapen worship with such tricks.”

  “All the more then should you be willing to 'conjure' for the good of Crete. You aren't offering true worship so you'll be doing nothing offensive to your god.”

  “You can only say that because you don't know Dionysus. He certainly would take offense—violent offense.”

  “How will he know if he never comes?” Androgeos asked, almost sneering. Ariadne shuddered and drew back a little into her chair. Misinterpreting her reaction, Androgeos said, “Very well, if you won't dance, then you won't, but if you would simply stand beside the Bull God and, say, light the torches with a gesture—”

  Although Androgeos' question had awakened a persistent anxiety strongly enough to send a chill over Ariadne's flesh—shouldn't a god know what his priestess was doing whether o
r not he was present physically? Yet Ariadne had good evidence—from Dionysus' own lips—that he did not know, that he hadn't even known that his favorite priestess, the first Ariadne, had died. But it didn't matter whether Dionysus ever knew she had supported the worship of the Bull God. The thought made her sick with revulsion.

  “No!”

  “You spend hours with him every day. Why won't you spend a little more time and do your people a great good? If we can only confirm the Bull God as a true deity, the profit to Knossos would be enormous.”

  “Profit,” Ariadne said flatly. So Minos was involved.

  “Yes, profit,” Androgeos returned. “Do you think anyone cares for the actual blessing of the grapes? They care for the juice they will press from them, the wine they will ferment and sell for ... yes ... profit.”

  “Don't talk like a fool,” Ariadne snapped. “I have no scorn of profit. Nor am I in any doubt about the value of treaties and trade agreements. A rich people is a happy people. But I tell you, there will be no profit in trying to make Asterion appear what he is not.”

  Androgeos' lips twisted. “You speak as Mouth?”

  “No, I speak as a person of common sense who isn't caught up in a crazy dream. What will happen when a treaty or trade agreement is violated? Do you expect poor Asterion to shake the earth or cast lightning?”

  “If crops were blighted—”

  Androgeos bit his lip. Clearly he hadn't intended to say so much and, indeed, it revealed how Minos and Pasiphae had planned to draw her step by step into becoming a priestess of the Bull God.

  Ariadne stood up. “You're mad! I'm not Demeter. I can't do such a thing, and if I could, I wouldn't!”